Crawling and babbling to toddling, then walking, running and dancing, climbing, laughing, and talking. I ask her questions and she answers me. I ask her to do things and she does them...some of the time. She's nearly 19-months-old now.
"Mumma gasses" she says, reaching for my black frames on the bathroom sink.
"DaDA!" she hollers toward the ceiling when she knows her father is upstairs working, to which he replies, "AMELIA!"
"Hup pease" (help please), She says when she wants to get into the storage closet (where all the battery operated toys are kept). Or "Hup pease! HupPEASE! HUP PEASE! When she wants to get into the storage closet several seconds before she realizes that she wants to get into the storage closet.
She's learning the difference between "Nice" and "Not nice." Sometimes she hurts me: drops things on my head or feet, sits on my stomach and jumps, squeezes my skin or slaps me. Most of the time, it's because she can't yet articulate her feelings (we're working on it), but sometimes, I think, she's just curious to see my reaction.
"Ouch!" I often exclaim because it hurts and her attacks can be startling and strong. "That was not nice, Amelia. Be nice to Mumma."
"Not Nie." She repeats. "Nie Mumma." She might say, petting me.
I watch my friends' baby a few mornings a week. She's tall, slender and sweet with glassy doll blue eyes and a love of throwing things, clearing surfaces and emptying containers. She's 13 months old. When she thinks I'm not looking, she reaches for rocks and licks them or grabs fistfuls of dry dirt from my houseplants. Her name is Sedona. Amelia loves her.... most of the time. And she has discovered that if she wants Sedona to crawl toward her in a game of chase, the best way to get her to do this is to let out several terribly shrill trilling screams. (We're working on a quieter version for the library and larger group gatherings.) When Sedona begins learning to walk, I catch Amelia holding her doll by the head, saying, "Walk baby, walk baby, walk!" Both girls find my homemade tents exceptionally thrilling and stand inside the tablecloth walls, screaming.
Some days, Amelia sneaks up behind Sedona to hug and kiss her ("ooowah!") Other days, she isn't so kind.
"Not nice, Amelia. You have to be nice to baby Sedona."
"Not nie. Nie baby. Nie."
Sedona and her parents, Mark and Amy, come over for supper recently. Amy is very important to us all, but to Amelia, she's the person always at the other end of her imaginary phone calls and at the other end of my real phone calls. Her name is often on the tip of Amelia's tongue. Mark is here a little less often, but she loves him just the same. Tall, goofy, fun, he's always up for spontaneous play and whenever he's here, Amelia is often raising her hands toward him, breathlessly pleading for "more! more! more!" More flying! More spinning! More galloping! The other night Mark and the girls play with this alligator vest we have. Amelia wears the toothy, big-eyed-gator hood, raises her hands toward Mark and lets out a roar. Mark plays along, because Mark always plays along. She roars and he cowers and hollers in a fit of silly fake fright. It's hilarious. Amelia reacts as if she's watching magic. Her eyes go wide then small as she laughs. MORE! Again, she raises her hands and roars. He screams. More! Roar! Scream!
She plays this game with everyone now. First, she finds something to put on: a piece of clothing like an oven mitt, or her plastic polka dot glasses, or her hand-knit chicken hat. Then the hands go up and ROAR! Most people participate and scream, which makes her giggle and roar again.
Today she lounges alone on the couch with Eric Carle's Polar Bear Polar Bear What Do You Hear?, naming nearly every animal. This includes her own inventive ways of pronouncing, "hippopotamus", "boa constrictor", "flamingo" and "peacock." I'm tickled and floored.
I do a short yoga class on my computer, pausing it only twice, while she sits at the table, bluing her teeth with blackberries. When I get her down from her seat (with 10 minutes left of the class), she stands on my mat and crawls between my legs and sits and smiles, grasping her toes, mimicking me. This makes laugh. Later, she's restless at nap time so I bundle her up in gloves, boots, hat and coat and strap her to my back. Then my dog and I climb the hill behind our house and wander through the deep soft snow, while she sleeps at my shoulder and the wind hushes the rumbling hum of the machines on the highway below.
This walk in the woods is how my whole life sometimes feels - like I've wandered away from the road and I'm lost in the thickets and weeds, tangled up in the prettiest wildflowers and dry fallen leaves, wondering why I am wandering and staring up at the tops of trees instead of forward toward the noise of the future. But then I try to tell myself that this quiet path I am building, trampling and dancing upon is not nowhere. It is here - my here with her.
Today she lounges alone on the couch with Eric Carle's Polar Bear Polar Bear What Do You Hear?, naming nearly every animal. This includes her own inventive ways of pronouncing, "hippopotamus", "boa constrictor", "flamingo" and "peacock." I'm tickled and floored.
I do a short yoga class on my computer, pausing it only twice, while she sits at the table, bluing her teeth with blackberries. When I get her down from her seat (with 10 minutes left of the class), she stands on my mat and crawls between my legs and sits and smiles, grasping her toes, mimicking me. This makes laugh. Later, she's restless at nap time so I bundle her up in gloves, boots, hat and coat and strap her to my back. Then my dog and I climb the hill behind our house and wander through the deep soft snow, while she sleeps at my shoulder and the wind hushes the rumbling hum of the machines on the highway below.
This walk in the woods is how my whole life sometimes feels - like I've wandered away from the road and I'm lost in the thickets and weeds, tangled up in the prettiest wildflowers and dry fallen leaves, wondering why I am wandering and staring up at the tops of trees instead of forward toward the noise of the future. But then I try to tell myself that this quiet path I am building, trampling and dancing upon is not nowhere. It is here - my here with her.
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